


Dust and Desire

by Blatherblatherskite



Category: Scout: An Apocalypse Story
Genre: Idiots in Love, M/M, Orgasm Delay, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:14:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26654257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blatherblatherskite/pseuds/Blatherblatherskite
Summary: It was going to happen.
Relationships: MC/Oliver Shen, Oliver Shen/MC
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Dust and Desire

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't know what fandom this is, please pause and go play [Scout: An Apocalypse Story](https://anya-writes.itch.io/scout-an-apocalypse-story) by the amazing and talented [Anya](https://anya-dev.tumblr.com/). When you're done with that, you can continue lmao

He isn't sure how this happened. One moment, they were bickering as usual, and the next moments are a series of blurs made even more gossamer and hazy by the heat in his belly and his scattered thoughts.

The object of his distraction is on his lap where they've ended up on a rusty metal chair, nearly having missed it entirely when Oliver tripped over it while being forced backwards, lips and teeth making him dizzy with want. They've hastily undressed, Oliver's dusty trousers wedged tightly around his thighs like a vice, pale legs slung over his hips and soft skin bared to his hungry eyes as Imeda struggles almost absently around the shirt that ends up twisted around his forearms in their rush to get it off. He's bouncing on Oliver's lap, chair creaking precariously beneath them, moans spilling from kiss-swollen lips and bangles jingling as he rests his hands on Oliver's knees.

The bangles. It was the bangles that had started it. Oliver had been growing increasingly agitated as Imeda's bracelets and bangles jangled and clattered whenever he moved--whenever he reached up to tuck back his dust-red curls; when he rummaged through debris; while he wrote notes against his knees in that crouch that made him look so much smaller than he had any right to look. Hazel eyes had flicked up just in time to catch the scowl that was on Oliver's face, and Imeda had cocked a brow and said, in that too-sweet tone that he knew always got a rise out of his superior, "Problem, Ollie?"

"Ollie," he gasps now, plaintively, urgently, and Oliver has the alarming urge to claw him open and wear him like a second skin--to be closer than close, to drive him to madness as easily and as wilfully as he does to Oliver, to--to-- _something_.

He settles for ploughing up into the man instead.

Imeda _sings_ for him, voice reaching a new high that thrills Oliver and fills him with a visceral sort of pride. Then Imeda throws his head back and makes a noise that makes Oliver feels like he's been turned inside out from heels to throat. His toes curl in his boots and he watches open-mouthed as Imeda scrabbles at the shirt around his arms, only to give up yet again when it gets tangled in his bangles. He hooks said shirt over the back of Oliver's neck instead.

"Always wanted this," he breathes, almost a whimper, and Oliver's hips stutter because surely he misheard, surely, certainly, absolutely, and then Imeda takes hold of his ponytail and _tugs_ , making Oliver grunt and bare his teeth. "Look at me when I'm telling you I want you," Imeda demands as he slows to a stop, and Oliver's dark eyes can’t help but widen, looking across at the man on his lap as his mind threatens to stop functioning in its entirety.

"What?" Oliver blurts, and kicks himself immediately; if there's one thing he hates it's wasting words. Imeda looks away from him and he realises he's been frowning--fuck, there's only one way for that to be taken, isn't there?

"Always wanted you," Imeda says again, skin flushed like peaches in the summertime, and Oliver tries not to let that thought trail into what that peach skin must taste like, willing his scrambled thoughts in order so that he can focus on the impossible things being said. "Always liked you, Oliver."

Oliver can feel his expression spasm, and he wills it into something he hopes is neutral when he asks, "As your… teammate?"

Imeda scowls, tugging at Oliver's hair again--he isn't sure he likes that, but it certainly gets his attention--and saying, "No, you goober; as a man."

"Goober," Oliver echoes helplessly, getting stuck on the childish insult. Imeda huffs and Oliver purses his lips.

"Oh, shut up," the younger man mutters under his breath, scraping his fingernails along Oliver's scalp in a way that sends a shiver ripping up his spine. "Fuck now, feels later."

Oliver attempts to snatch his thoughts back from the brief whirlwind of sensation that swept them away. "What-- _nghk!_ "

Apparently, talking is very difficult when someone is riding you like the antidote to their poison is held in your balls.

Imeda moves differently then, grinding his hips down into Oliver's lap and rocking in a way that makes Oliver gasp and curse. The thought--the barest possibility--that this might not be a mistake that they'll both regret loosens something in Oliver that he hadn't realised was taut. His hands move along Imeda's soft skin and his thumbs sweep firm lines up the smaller man's body until they reach the soft flush of his nipples.

"Oh, fuck," Imeda whispers, arching into Oliver's touch so eagerly that Oliver feels compelled to replace his fingers with his lips and tongue. When he does, his name is the sweetest mewn from Imeda's lips, an entreaty for more and a plea for mercy all in one. Oliver eases up, almost apologetic, and then Imeda's teeth are on his ear and Oliver is groaning, surging forward to bite at Imeda's pale chest hard enough that the man _squeals_.

"You don't know what you do to me," Oliver can't help but say, voice rough as Imeda writhes on his lap.

"S'what you do to me," Imeda pants, looking down at Oliver when he looks up from where he's mouthing at the reddening mark on the man’s chest. "I love you, Oliver Shen."

Oliver feels his higher reasoning skills topple like an unsteady Jenga tower, getting caught on those five little words like wheels in the dust. He feels blindsided and mentally flails for any sort of purchase, trying and failing to think past that improbable confession as he attempts to will his mouth to move off of the nipple that rests on his tongue with little success.

Imeda's bangles tinkle as the man pulls his arms off of Oliver's neck, face flaming in a way that Oliver has never seen before--a way that really isn't helping his floundering thought processes--a way that implies that maybe, just maybe, those words weren't some cruel joke to toy with his feelings or smooth over whatever social faux pas it is to sleep with what amounts to one's boss in the middle of a desert on a rickety folding chair miles from what’s left of civilisation. Oliver has a single bright, beautiful moment of unadulterated bliss.

Then the chair finally gives way beneath them.

When Oliver comes to a moment later, he's disoriented and confused, and he's made even more so when he realises that Imeda is shirtless above him, warm hands cupping his face and large eyes full of concern.

"Oliver?" he prompts, and this grabs the scout leader's attention--Imeda never calls him by his full name unless he can help it. "You okay? How's your head? Do you feel dizzy at all? Any blurred vision?"

For a moment, Oliver thinks that he's dreaming, and then the situation he's in floods back to him and he can feel heat creeping up his neck. "Did we break the chair?"

Imeda huffs, his smile somewhere between rueful and embarrassed. "We broke the chair."

"No dizziness," Oliver dutifully replies, sitting up with a grimace as the action makes the remnants of the aforementioned piece of furniture dig into his back. "Vision is fine. Head hurts where I hit it, that's all."

Imeda hums acknowledgement and gently probes the back of Oliver's head with careful fingers, wincing sympathetically when Oliver's expression tightens. "You're not bleeding," he murmurs, "but we should still keep an eye on you. If you feel any nausea, get a bad headache, or start feeling confused, tell me or the doc right awa--"

The noise that Imeda makes when Oliver picks him up and shifts them both off of the chair parts can only really be described as a yelp, and it's a noise that would make Oliver laugh were he not still balls-deep in a mostly-naked scouting team member who--if memory serves (and he hopes to hell it does, after that tumble)--has just admitted to having feelings for him.

"Warn a guy," Imeda breathlessly chastises, fingers clinging to the front of Oliver's rumpled shirt and expression beautifully dazed. "I was in the middle of my spiel. I was spieling. You can't just interrupt a doctor’s spiel."

Oliver snorts. "Should I put us back on the pile of potential tetanus?"

Imeda frowns, though it's more of a pout. "No, but would it kill you to be good to me for once?"

Oliver's attention zeros in on Imeda’s face. "Am I not good to you?" he asks, suddenly concerned. Had he been pushing too hard to keep the man at arm's length?

"No," Imeda is quick to reply, then stammers through an explanation when Oliver's eyes narrow. "I mean, yes! You--it's not that you’re not _good_ \--you're _very_ good-- _great_ , even!--but you don't--you--I try to get closer to you and you just--you shut me down, and you put up a wall, and I can't get through to you--which is confusing, by the way? You have no idea how much I wanted to kiss you that night by the bonfire when you let me touch your tattoos, but then the wall is there like you don't want to get too close to me, when all I've wanted for years is to be close to you, and then we end up sniping back and forth and getting on each other's last nerves, and--and I guess it ends in sex now, apparently," he finishes lamely, squirming on Oliver's lap in a way that almost derails the man's attempt to process all of that babbling.

"So I'm not… bad," Oliver concludes, feeling more hesitant than he's felt in the face of greater threats.

Imeda squirms again. "Not in the way I want you to be," he mumbles, and Oliver briefly feels as though he's been hit in the head all over again.

"'The way that you want me to be'? You want me to be bad?"

"I want you to _fuck_ me," Imeda replies, almost a whine, and Oliver nearly drops him before the smaller man clings to him like a cat with all four limbs and a startled laugh. "I want you to--I want you to fuck me. To _wreck_ me. You drive me _crazy_ , Ollie--you drive me right up the wall and I've wanted to kiss you since we got here."

Oliver almost wheezes as all the breath leaves his lungs. "That long?"

"Longer," says Imeda, desperate and earnest and a little bit frayed. "Since you came to us out of the dust, since you fucking--you--you’re _hot_ , you _asshole_ , and I've had dreams about you being inside me since before I knew I liked you for more than just your pretty face."

"Oh, Christ," Oliver hisses, burying his face against the side of Imeda's neck and trying to ground himself before he up and embarrasses himself further. He's never been this hard or felt this ready to blow, even after having wet dreams of the man currently in his arms. _Fuck_.

"Ollie?" Imeda murmurs, running his fingers through Oliver's hair and palming the hair tie that slips out of it. "You okay, big guy?"

"I don't know," Oliver replies, because he truly doesn't; he's never felt this off-kilter.

"Do you wanna stop?" asks Imeda, huffing a nervous little laugh. "You're, um--You're not exactly softening up, but I understand if this is a lot to take in. But if we're gonna continue, I'm gonna need a little more spit or something, because I don't wanna stop but you're wonderfully proportionate, and that means my ass is-- _fuck!_ "

Dust billows up when Oliver rests his prize against the floor of the ruined building that they ended up in, and Oliver waves his arm to push it away so that Imeda's heaving chest doesn't take it in.

"Are we still not doing the warning thing?" Imeda burbles, lashes fluttering over his darkened eyes. "I can work with that--oh, Jesus."

The spit helps, but Oliver is determined that the next time--next time?--will be with something slicker. Oliver thrusts in and Imeda whimpers, fingers tight in Oliver's shirt. They're both going to need showers for a variety of reasons, but Oliver thinks this might be the best one. "I don't want to stop," he husks, and Imeda shivers beneath him like he's been shocked.

"I don't want you to stop," Imeda whispers back, voice thick and eyes shimmering, and Oliver almost _does_ stop before Imeda reaches up to take hold of his collar and says, "Don't you dare."

Logically, Oliver knows that passionate kissing led up to the sex, but his heart hammers as if they're kissing for the first time when Imeda pulls him down onto him by virtue of tugging Oliver's shirt over his head. Judging by the peachy colouring Imeda is sporting as he nuzzles almost shyly up at Oliver, he might just be feeling the same. Their kiss then is gentler--unhurried and more exploratory. Imeda makes soft hiccuping noises that almost sound like sobs when Oliver moves inside him, and the scout leader does his damndest to swallow them up with every firm sweep of his tongue.

When he starts to move faster, Oliver's name is a breathless chant that spills from Imeda's lips, head tipped back to give Oliver room to roam with his mouth along the pale expanse of his throat. Every repetition--every curse and whimper and moan--sets Oliver's blood on fire, heart beating a possessive tattoo against the inside of his chest as Imeda digs his nails into Oliver's shoulders as if he'd fall off the earth if Oliver weren’t there to ground him.

"Shit," Imeda whimpers, body rocking back and forth along the dust on the floor as Oliver moves inside him and pulls him flush against his pelvis. "Fuck, Oliver--Ollie-- _Shen!_ "

Imeda's orgasm is _tectonic_. Oliver is breathless and mesmerised by the way the man writhes and comes with a wordless cry. His spine curves hard and his mouth drops open, nails dragging down along Oliver's bare back in a way that makes Oliver speed up and groan, biting his lip until he nearly draws blood to keep himself from spilling. Imeda has to tap out for mercy a few seconds later, and Oliver slows to a stop so that Imeda's seizing lungs can kick back into motion and allow him a ragged gasp of air.

"Fuck," Imeda dazedly huffs, thighs trembling against Oliver's hips along with the rest of him. "Holy shit, Ollie."

Oliver tamps down the sudden smug satisfaction that burns in his belly, daring to stroke along those pale legs as a way to distract himself. "Are you alright?"

Imeda laughs, brushing a curl away from his face with a lopsided grin. "Define 'alright'. I can't feel my legs?"

Oliver can't help but laugh back, shaking his head and looking away to hide his smirk. Damn it. When he looks back at Imeda, the smaller man is frowning, making Oliver's stomach twist. "What is it?"

"You didn't come."

Oh. Oliver's shoulders relax a fraction. "No."

Imeda's frown deepens. "I want you to come."

Oliver shivers, eyes going lidded. His tongue flickers out to wet his lips before he dares to rumble, "Then you'll have to work for it."

"Sweet Jesus," Imeda breathes, covering his face with his hands and leaving only his mouth exposed. "You'll be the death of me, Oliver Shen. That was so hot."

Oliver laughs again, and his momentary distraction is enough for Imeda to twist his leg across Oliver's back and pivot with enough force to change their positions. Oliver _does_ wheeze this time as his back hits the floor, coughing through the dust and looking up at Imeda incredulously.

"I meant what I said," is Imeda's response, breathless with the effort of moving Oliver's bulk as he looks down at Oliver with a heated gaze. "I want you to come."

"Fuck," Oliver whispers, hands squeezing Imeda's hips as the man takes his own mess and uses it to ease the way. "Keep going like this and I just might."

"'Might'?" Imeda scoffs. " _Will_." He sets his hands on Oliver’s chest when he begins to move, bangles jingling as they settle and shift.

Oliver studies them to keep himself grounded in the moment, unwilling to lose himself to sensation. Some of them are made of wood and some are made of plastic or resin, with very few made of metal since the years had been unkind to most metal jewellery they found. Many of the wooden pieces are polished until they gleam, likely by Imeda himself in an effort to keep them in good condition. The plastic and the resin ones are much more colourful, containing tiny flowers or bits of coloured glass or clay, or some other material that Oliver can't think of when Imeda moves like _that_ \--

"There," Imeda whispers when Oliver groans, stroking Oliver's chest in a way that make his bangles whisper between them. "Pay attention to me. Look at me. Up at me. Like that. Good boy."

Heat rockets up Oliver's spine and down into his lower belly, stealing his breath away in its intensity.

Imeda only grins. "You like that? When I tell you how good you are? So good for me. Fucked me so well, and now I get to return the favour. God, the things you do to me…"

And so it goes. Praise and encouragement spill from Imeda's lips like water in this desert, and Oliver is surprised to find that his thirst is unquenchable when Imeda rides him without an ounce of shame. He feels his muscles tighten and he starts to tremble, sweat glistening on his skin as he fights to keep his restraint.

"Oh, fuck, I'm gonna come," Imeda whispers at length, and Oliver can’t help but groan, his breaths stuttering as he nearly loses his grip on himself. Oliver pulls Imeda down harder and faster, swearing when Imeda mewns and bounces on his lap with reckless abandon. "Come for me?" he begs of Oliver, barely able to keep his eyes open as his body quivers above his scout leader's. "Please come for me. Come in me. Fill me. Make me messy. Make me yours."

Oliver can't contain himself anymore. Not when Imeda begs so sweetly and with such filthy words. He feels himself shudder from head to toe as he finally, finally relinquishes his iron-clad hold on himself, swearing gutturally as he empties himself deep inside Imeda with a grip on the man's hips so tight that he swears he'll leave bruises. Everything turns into liquid heat for several seconds as he comes down from that high, and he's almost surprised to find Imeda cuddled against his chest when it’s all over.

Almost as surprised as he is to find his own arms tucked around Imeda, like they've always belonged there.

"Figures you'd be stubborn in sex, too," Imeda mumbles, words gently slurring together as he sleepily nuzzles and kisses at the skin of Oliver’s chest.

Oliver huffs, though he can't help but hum a soft little noise of pleasure as Imeda continues. "We shouldn't sleep here."

"Just a nap," Imeda protests, curling up tighter against Oliver. "Five minutes."

Oliver frowns. "It's not safe."

"Bullshit," Imeda snorts, already half asleep. "Nowhere's safer than with you."

Oliver… doesn't know what to say to that. Nothing coherent, in any case, to put words to the swell of emotion in his chest and the almost queasy fluttering in his stomach. Instead, he settles for sighing and brushing Imeda's hair from his face, kissing his sweaty brow as the smaller man's breaths even and slow. Five minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> Boy has been living rent-free in my head so I made y'all pay for it with the first smut I've written in 84 years. EDIT: Gods bless my wife for beta-ing this for me because I wrote it in the throes of the fucking FLU


End file.
